Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works eBook

The village Inn, a little white building whose small
windows were overgrown with creepers, had a single
guest’s bedroom on the upper floor, and a little
sitting-room where Courtier took his meals. The
rest of the house was but stone-floored bar with a
long wooden bench against the back wall, whence nightly
a stream of talk would issue, all harsh a’s,
and sudden soft u’s; whence too a figure, a
little unsteady, would now and again emerge, to a
chorus of ‘Gude naights,’ stand still under
the ash-trees to light his pipe, then move slowly
home.

But on that evening, when the trees, like cattle,
stood knee-deep in the moon-dust, those who came out
from the bar-room did not go away; they hung about
in the shadows, and were joined by other figures creeping
furtively through the bright moonlight, from behind
the Inn. Presently more figures moved up from
the lanes and the churchyard path, till thirty or
more were huddled there, and their stealthy murmur
of talk distilled a rare savour of illicit joy.
Unholy hilarity, indeed, seemed lurking in the deep
tree-shadow, before the wan Inn, whence from a single
lighted window came forth the half-chanting sound
of a man’s voice reading out loud. Laughter
was smothered, talk whispered.

“He’m a-practisin’ his spaches.”
“Smoke the cunnin’ old vox out!”
“Red pepper’s the proper stuff.”
“See men sneeze! We’ve a-screed
up the door.”

Then, as a face showed at the lighted window, a burst
of harsh laughter broke the hush.

He at the window was seen struggling violently to
wrench away a bar. The laughter swelled to hooting.
The prisoner forced his way through, dropped to the
ground, rose, staggered, and fell.

A voice said sharply:

“What’s this?”

Out of the sounds of scuffling and scattering came
the whisper: “His lordship!” And
the shade under the ash-trees became deserted, save
by the tall dark figure of a man, and a woman’s
white shape.

“Is that you, Mr. Courtier? Are you hurt?”

A chuckle rose from the recumbent figure.

“Only my knee. The beggars! They
precious nearly choked me, though.”

CHAPTER VII

Bertie Caradoc, leaving the smoking-room at Monkland
Court that same evening,—­on his way to
bed, went to the Georgian corridor, where his pet
barometer was hanging. To look at the glass had
become the nightly habit of one who gave all the time
he could spare from his profession to hunting in the
winter and to racing in the summer.’

The Hon. Hubert Caradoc, an apprentice to the calling
of diplomacy, more completely than any living Caradoc
embodied the characteristic strength and weaknesses
of that family. He was of fair height, and wiry
build. His weathered face, under sleek, dark
hair, had regular, rather small features, and wore
an expression of alert resolution, masked by impassivity.
Over his inquiring, hazel-grey eyes the lids were